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DOUBLE DUMMY 



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males, 
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No. 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts 



Double Dummy 

A Comedietta in One Act 



By 
EMA S. HUNTING 



BOSTON 

WALTER H. BAKER & CO. 

1917 






Double Dummy 



CHARACTERS 

Merton Graves, oftAe "Post." 
Kathrine Coleman, of ike "Press." 

Time. — A cloudy day in midwinter, at three in the afternoon- 




Copyright, 191 7, by Walter H. Baker & Co. 



FEB -I 1917 

SCI.D 46053 

TMP92-009i54 



Double Dummy 



SCENE. — The studio of one Stephen Wai?iworth, an artist, 
tvhose fanciful sketches of celebrities bring him the money he 
refuses to spend on Chinese idols for his studio, and the fame 
he painstakingly avoids. A plain setting, then, in an upper 
room, with "artist's liglif' coming in through the north 
windows. An easel bearing a large canvas stands at the 
right, half turned toiuard the audience. A few chairs 
and tables and a couch stand anywhere, none of them sug- 
gesting the bizarre luxury of the typical studio. A closed 
cupboard at the extreme right is half concealed by the easel. 
There is a door at back centre, near it a telepho?ie. 

Enter Merton Graves. He is a clean, breezy, comtnon 
enough young fellow, with a likable face and impulsive 
manner. There is a general suggestion of business alert- 
?iess about him, although at the moment a half comical 
dismay rests visibly on his face. He aims his soft cap at 
one chair, his ulster at a second, and flings himself on a 
third, ruftning impatie?it fingers through his slightly tousled 
black hair. 

Graves. I knew he wouldn't be here. I knew it. Nobody 
but a sitter can find a painter at home. Hang it all, I wanted 
him, too. What's the use of friends you can't get at? {He 
stretches himself disconsolately, and falls into deeper dejection.^ 
I believe I'll chuck the whole thing and get into a man's busi- 
ness. Here I am wasting my time, and the splendid talents all 
my relatives tell me I've got, chasing up a parcel of fool celeb- 
rities who don't want to be interviewed anyway — the decent 
ones. When a big live fellow like me has to spend his days 
and nights hanging around trying to get ten minutes' talk with 
a footlight favorite for the sake of putting on the front page 
what dentist she patronizes and how she takes her eggs — and 
calling it journalism ! {He stretches himself again, yawns, 



4 



DOUBLE DUMMY 



looks at his watch, atid becomes suddenly energetic.') Three 
o'clock, by crackie ! An hour and a half to get that interview 
into the office — or get the door shut in my face. Wainworth 
might have done something — he said he would — that's the way 

with cronies Hello! What's this? {He has been rttu- 

ning about collecting his belongings, and has come upon a fiote 
placed conspicuously on a table. He tears it open rapidly, 
runs his eyes quickly over the contents, and becomes immediately 
jubilant.) Beg your pardon, old man ! Say, this is great — 
this is immense ! Um — um — let's see. {Reads.) " The coy 
Mme. Mordini, whom your boss so ardently desires to exploit 
in to-morrow's Post, is evidently not so chary of her fiice as of 
her history; for whereas she has refused an interview with you 
to the point of rudeness," — h'm ! Put it stronger, old man ! — 
" she has requested me to paint her in one of her famous charac- 
ters. Need 1 say more, my dear boy, than that her appoint- 
ment is for three this afternoon, that 1 will be absent, that you 
will be present — if you keep your promise of yesterday — that 
the lady doesn't know me from Adam, or from you, which is 
more to the point, and that if you care to try your hand at 
portraiture, either in oil or word painting, you'll never get a 
better chance? Wainworth." Well, the nerve of it — the 
clean, cool, downright nerve of it ! {Suddenly the husnor of 
the suggestion strikes him. He doubles up ifi a peal of laugh- 
ter.) Me a painter — me a delineator of feminine loveliness ! 

Me a — a Oh, ha ! ha ! ha ! But hold on — it's bread 

and butter to me, that's what it is — bread and butler. H'm I 
{He thinks for half a mifiute, laughs, thinks again, and finally 
bursts into a state of feverish activity, seizing his hat and coat 
and thrusting them out of sight, and searching furiously all 
round the room.) Where on earth does Steve keep it ? Every- 
body that ever heard of Steve has heard of that coat. I can't 
be Steve without that coat — I've got to have that coat — I've 

got to have Crackie ! {A peremptory k?iock sounds at 

the door.) That's her now ! But I've got to do it — I've got 

to get that interview or lose my job. Just a minute, madam 

{He hustles frantically around in search of the coat, finally pulls 
it out of a cupboard door and scrambles into it.) Presto — 
chango ! The newspaper reporter becomes the artist ! 

{He gives a dab at his hair, straightens his face into an ex- 
pression of preternatural solemnity, and flings open the 
door. A diminutive, very erect little person in a long 



DOUBLE DUMMY 5 

black cloak stands revealed. The cloak is modern and by 
no means luxurious, but the little lady has her hair dressed 
in intentionally quaint style, parted to the broiv, zvith a high 
comb and two thick curls hanging one behind each ear. 
Her eyes are defiant, but very blue ; her nose held in the 
air, but very small; her mouth firm, but very, very red. 
She pauses half shrinkingly for a iuoment, barely glances 
at Gkaves in his smeared white coat, and comes hurriedly 
into the room. She turns her back on Graves and speaks 
hurriedly.) 

Kathrine Coleman. Mr. VVainworth, I suppose — Mr. 
Stephen VVainworth? 

Graves. At your service. 

Kath. I am a little late. 

Graves. I hope nothing happened? 

Kath. What? Oh — oh, no. I am not punctual, you 
know, naturally. I never could keep my appointments. 

(Graves notes the fact laith delight, turnitig his back and 
scribbling on his pad.) 

Graves (aside). Gotto writedown these points. (To her.) 
Neither can I. I detest being on time. You waste so raucii 
time waiting for other people. (Kath. dimples, slips a similar 
pad out of her pocket, and also ivrites. Graves turns around 
guiltily.) Er — I beg pardon. Did you speak? 

Kath. (same business). No — did you ? That is — shall we 
begin at once? 

Graves. I beg pardon again. I did not recognize you for 
a moment. This is Mme. Mordini, is it not ? 

Kath. 1 was to come at three, 1 believe? 

Graves. Oh, yes, I believe so. But I was thinking — of 
course your time is valuable, and so is mine, you know 

Kath. I won't keep you waiting, Mr. Wainworth. I am 
quite ready, and won't you please — 1 mean, we will proceed at 
once. 

(She sweeps off her black coat with as grand an air as so 
very petite a person is capable of, and faces him suddenly, 
daringly, challengingly. Her gown is blue, of very sgft 
material, made in a quaint, short-waisted style. She wears 
long black lace gloves, and a little black lace shaivl is 
drawn about her slender shoulders. Graves stares at 



DOUBLE DUMMY 



her with a prolonged, a guileless stare, and she returns it 
bravely.^ 

Graves. Say — I thought Mme. Mordini was homely- 



{Pretends to sneeze.') 1 — 1 — excuse me ! I always sneeze 
when I talk mucli. 

Kath. Then perhaps you had better paint instead. {She 
takes a chair in front and to one side of the easel.) I don't 
care what pose you paint me in. I chose this — this costume 
because it is so simple. I — I always dress simply. That is of 
course on the stage one has to cater to the public, but 1 refuse 
to do it elsewhere. This is a costume 1 wore — the first time 1 
tried acting. 

Gkaves. Is that right ? Say, I wager you made a hit. 

Kath. Do I look all right here ? 

Graves. I should say you do. Oh, well, just turn the face 
a bit more this way — raise the eyes a trifle — little more — there ! 
That's — that's great. 

{A pause, while, obedient, she looks directly into his eyes.) 

Kath. Hadn't you better begin? 

Graves. Begin? Oh — the picture ! Yes, of course. Say, 
how do you think it would be if you looked up at that corner 
over there? Yes, that's better. Just keep looking that way, 
won't you? {He takes up a pallette and brush gingerly, 7i>atch- 
ing that she doesn't turn and see his awktuardness.) You — 
you'll just look at that corner, won't you? 

Kath. I'd rather look at the corner, I assure you. 

Graves. H'm. {A pause.) 

Kath. What are you doing? 

Graves. Nothing. The fact is — I was going to tell you a 
while ago that the light is bad. Very bad. It's awful, really. 
I can't remember when it's been so bad for painting. Why, 
it's so bad that I can't paint. 

Kath. Then I had better go. 

Graves. Oh, no — no, not at all. I was just going to say 
that makes it all the better. You needn't look at that corner, 
you know, except when I'm painting. 

Kath. Thank you, but I don't mind it in the least. You 
aren't going to paint, though, if the light is so bad? 

Graves. Well — t think I will — just dash in a background, 
you know. The light won't matter for that, 



DOUBLE DUMMY 



7 



Kath. What color? Oh, don't make it red! I look so 
horrid in red. 

Graves. I don't believe it ! Er — I'm going to make it 
just any color — no particular color. — You see, this background 
doesn't make any difference. No, it's covered up later any- 
how. It's just to — to soften the canvas. 

Kath. Oh, then I can watch you put it in. That's one 
of the things I wanted to see, how you work. Because I'm in- 
tensely interested in Art, you understand, in the way artists 
work. 

i^Each time she fnakes an asserlion about herself he makes 
note of it. ) 

Graves. I don't believe you would care to see me work. 
Really, I think it would bore you awfully. {lie begifis to 
splotch paint on the canvas.') The fact is, I have a peculiar 
method. Especially in putting in backgrounds. 

Kath. (delighted, watchitig him closely). Really? How 
nice. 

Graves. Yes. I — say, do you paint ? 

Kath. The idea ! Do I look as if 

Graves. Oh, I'm a fool — I mean, I'm not so big a fool as 
to think — I mean, do you paint pictures, you know? 

Kath. Oh ! 1 never had a brush in my hand. 

Graves. Thank Heaven ! It's such a dog's life, you see, 
a painter's. {Aside, mopping his brow.) I should say it is ! 

Kath. Oh, but don't you just love your work? Aren't 
you just carried away with your subject? 

GiJAVES {aside). Yes, I'm afraid I am ! 

Kath. I've always been so interested in Art, and I've 
thought painters must love to paint. You love to paint, don't 
you ? 

Graves {savagely). Dote on it, madam, dote on it ! 

Kath. {aside). I must make the man talk 1 {To him.) 
I suppose the subject makes a lot of difference, too? 

Gkaves. Oh, Lord, yes. Now, there are some people I 
just wouldn't attempt to paint. 

Kath. What kind ? 

Graves. Oh, any kind. I — I wasn't cut out for a portrait 
painter, really. The fact is, I've missed my calling. {She 
makes delighted notes, surreptitiously.) I'm finding it out more 
everv minute. I ought to be running a lumber yard back in 
Iowa, that's what i ought to be doing. 



8 DOUBLE DUMMY 

Kath. That's because you love nature. You find the city 
loo artificial, don't you? You ought to paint rural back- 
grounds. I'll tell you what — paint an Iowa background for 
me. Don't you think I would look well in a prairie or corn- 
field or something? 

Graves. Do I? You'd look mighty good to me right 
across the street from the lumber yard. But I suppose in your 
profession you don't go much on lumber yards and such, do you ? 

Kath. N-no. Most — of us — don't. But I always liked 
big smelly piles of clean boards. Only, when one enters a 
calling one should be wholly absorbed in it and not think of — 
other things. 

Graves. What other things? 

Kath. Oh, clothes and pretty things and — and fun. One 
should be serious. 

Graves. That's the dickens of it ! 

Kath. But please let me see you put in the background. 
You said you use a peculiar method. That's what I want to 
find out — because I'm interested in Art, you know. 

Graves. Why — yes. I suppose I can dash in a little back- 
ground. (^He takes tip the pallet te again, dips the brush at 
rafidoni a?id smears recklessly o?i the ca/ivas.) This is just to 
soften the canvas, you know I told you. It will be all cov- 
ered up. 

Kath. But can't you show me how you really paint? 

Graves. Oh, I paint just this same way. I belong to the 
impressionistic school. 

Kath. What does that mean ? 

Graves. It means that I have to see — some things — just 
once — for them to make an impression on me — a deep im- 
pression. 

Kath. What kind of things? 

Graves. Black curls and impudent noses. 

Kath. If you are not going to paint I shall go at once. 

Graves. But I am painting. I can't do any more to this 
until the background dries or else I'd sketch in 

Kath. I don't care if it has got to dry. You must make 
a sketch so that I can see the way you work. What else did I 
come for? You haven't done a thing, and I have wasted an 
hour without finding out — without it's doing a bit of good. 
Sketch me on something else. 

Graves. Well — hadn't you better come again, some other 
day 



DOUBLE DUMMY 9 

Kath. No, now. Please do. You don't know how badly 
I Mr. VVainworth, 1 insist! 

Graves. Oh, of course, if you insist ! I will make a mere 
hasty — er — impressionistic sketch, you understand. 

Kath. Certainly. Shall I sit here again ? 

Graves. Yes. And look at the corner. 

Kath. Oh, but then I can't see you. 

Graves. If you don't look at the corner, I can't put down 
my impressions, that's all there is about it. {She looks meekly 
at the corner. He goes to work grimly, yet with an evident 
sense of the humor of the scrape, and instead of painting, 
writes rapidly on one corner of the canvas.) This is a pencil 
sketch, you know ; just in black and white, so it can't be 
strictly accurate. Black and white isn't my field. I — I'm not 
cut out for this sort of business. Let's see — I mean, tell me — 
are your eyes blue? 

Kath. 1 thought this was black and white — and impres- 
sionistic? Do my eyes impress you as being blue? Not that 
it makes any difference. 

Graves. Oh, of course it doesn't make any difference — it 
can't make any difference — to me. 

Kath. Are Mrs. Wainworth's eyes blue — I mean, do they 
impress you as being blue ? 

Graves. What? Oh, Mrs. — yes, Mrs. Wainworth's — no, 
they aren't blue. They are green. 

Kath. Green ? 

Graves. With envy. Just look at the corner, won't you? 
(^The telephone rings.) Excuse me just a moment. Oh — say, 
you better keep that pose. I wouldn't move if I were you. It 
might spoil tlie impression. {He goes imwillingly to the tele- 
phone, thics turiiing his hack on her and on the canvas. She 
rises ifnniediately and slips over to the easel, taking in the 
*^ sketch^' first ivith a single glance, then in detail. Gradu- 
ally her attention is drawn to what Graves is saying at the 
telephone, until she is frankly listening. Graves, at the 
^phone.) Hello ! Y-yes Um — yes. 

Kath. {aside). It certainly is a pencil sketch ! 

Graves. Who? Who? Oh! Why, yes, I guess so. 

Say, ring up again some other time, won't you ? I'm busy. 

Kath. (reading from the canvas). " Independent black 
curls" ! 

Graves. Oh, no — yes, I guess I can paint it all right — 
but 



ID DOUBLE DUMMY 

Kath. "Neat little figure" 

Gkaves. No, I want to do it, really. I mean, I guess I do. 
Look here, can't you let me think about it? 

Kath. " Nose turns up" ! 

Graves. Oh, right away? Five hundred dollars, you say? 

— No, I haven't turned you down — I beg pardon — I — say 

Hello ! Say, the fact is, this isn't VVainworth. No — 1 can't 
explain. But he will be back in an hour. I'm awfully sorry. 
I didn't catch on, you know. Say, you'll call him up — you'll 
see him about it? Thanks awfully. I'm sorry — good-bye! 
(^He turtis and sees her at the easel watcJii/ig him. There is a 
perceptible pause.) You see 1 couldn't let the old chap lose a 
big thing like that. I just had to tell. I couldn't help it, 
could I ? (^She remains quite still, looking at him. He de- 
scends gradually from embarrasstnent to the depths of horrified 
cotitrition.) Well, I couldn't, could I? Oh, I'm no good at 
this sort of business. I'm going home and get into the lumber 
yard with Dad — say, I won't print a thing you said, honest. 
I'll go and get fired. Hang it, I hope you don't think I like 
this sort of thing Say, look here, I'm no end sorry, hon- 
est. I — T — oh, d-d-darn it ! (Suddenly she collapses into a 
chair. He mops his brow, relieved that she has at least moved.') 
That's right — sit down. Just be — be comfortable. 

Kath. I am deeply offended with you. I don't see what I 

have done that would give you freedom to My nose 

doesn't turn up ! 

Graves. What ? 

Kath. I mean — explain yourself, sir. 

Graves. You don't, either ! You mean you are mad be- 
cause I said your nose turns up ! 

Kath. I'm not ! 

Graves. You are ! 

Kath. I'm not, I'm Please, who are you? 

Graves. I'm the biggest fool this side of Iowa ! Merton 
Graves, supposed to be reporting on the Post 

Kath. Stop ! Do you mean to tell me that you are the 
man who has been haunting Mme. Mordini's hotel for two days 
trying to get an interview for the Post! 

Graves. No, I didn't mean to tell you, but I'm the man. 

Kath. You never saw her — not once? 

Graves. Not a glimpse. 

Kath. What made you think she was homely ? 

Graves. Never seeing her. 



DOUBLE DUMMY II 

Katii. Wouldn't you have told me — ever — if you hadn't 
been obliged to give it away? 

Graves {explosively). Yes, I would ! I'd have told you 
to-morrow when I called to say good-bye. 

Kath. Good-bye? 

GuAVES. I'm going to Iowa to-morrow. I won't stand this 
monkeying any longer. What's the use? 

Kath. (^forlornly). That's so — what is the use? I believe 
I'll quit it, too. 

Graves. Quit? The stage, you mean ? Quit acting? 

Kath. Um — yes I Quit acting. Mr. Graves, I — I'm act- 
ing now. 

Graves. I know — at the Olympic. But you've only this 
season booked, haven't you, and then you could 

Kath. I mean I'm acting right now, right here. And it's 
the first time I ever did. Oh, I think you're the most stupid 
thing I ever saw ! 

Graves. Say — look here 

Kath. Do you really tliink I am Mme. Mordini? The 
French-Italian tragedy queen? Do you think she would come 
in a — a rig like this, all alone up here to be painted just like 
anybody would? Do you think her nose turns up? Why, if 
Mme. Mordini were here, there would be a French maid over 
in that corner with a pile of wraps and tilings as high as her- 
self, and a woolly French poodle yapping at your heels, and 
you wouldn't be pretending to paint a meek little person in a 
cotton gown ! Mme. Mordini would scare you so with one 
look There isn't a person on earth less like Mme. Mor- 
dini tiian I am ! 

Graves. Then who are you ? 

Kath. I'm an impostor, sir, a vile 

Graves. Look here — who are you ? 

Kath. I'm Kathrine Coleman, formerly of the T'/r^^ and 

now — fired! And Oh! — I'm so — so Oh, dear, 

oh, dear 

{She suddenly begins to cry, and Graves is terribly worked 
up, offer ifig her absurd things as comfort, fanning her, 
putting her coat around her, etc.) 

Graves. There, there, there, now ! Oh, crackle, what have 
I done? What's the matter? Tell me. Honest, you've just 
got to tell me. Honest, I'll explode ! Are you cold— scared 
— mad 



12 DOUBLE DUMMY 

Kath. Oil, Stop ! There isn't anything the matter except 
that I'm — h-hungry ! 

Graves. Hungry? Good Lord! {He dashes off to the 
cupboard and comes tearing back with a salt shaker and a mus- 
tard bottle.) She can't eat these! What a fool I am 

{Finally, he extracts a box of soda biscuits and presses them 
on her ivith noisy delight.) Hungry? Here, eat — eat quick 
— eat a lot — eat fast ! Hungry ? Good Lord ! I was never 
hungry in my life. Don't talk — just eat ! 

Kath. Thanks. Oh, this is good. So are you. Don't 
laugh at me. You see, I've been starving for nearly two 
days 

Graves. Say, it won't take me a minute to go out and get 
you something decent. Two days ! Why 

{ffe starts to dash off in his white coat but she calls him 
back.) 

Kath. No, wait — I want'to tell you first. Won't — won't 
you have a cracker? Sit down — yes. You see, I tried to 
write, but I suppose I couldn't, only I wouldn't give it up. 
Then they took me on the Press to do occasional stories, you 
know — the kind they don't want to bother the good ones with. 

Graves. But say — eat, you know. 

Kath. Then — I failed on one of them and they said they 
would give me one more trial. I was to interview Mr. Wain- 
worth. 

Graves. Steve ? Why, he won't be interviewed. 

Kath. That's just it ! So I was — was starving, and I hap- 
pened to hear Mme. Mordini call back to her maid — oh, I had 
a desperate hope that I could get a story from the famous 
Madam, so I haunted her ! — I heard her direct her maid to 
telephone Mr. Wainworth and break her appointment for this 
afternoon. I was hungry — I was lonesome — I didn't care — so 
I bribed the maid with my gold chain. And I came to inter- 
view you, just the way you came to interview me ! 

Graves. W-what? Hold on ! You came to interview 
Steve and I am not Steve, and I came to interview Mme. 
Mordini and you are — you are Kathrine Coleman. 

Kath. Yes. And so you lost me my job, and I lost you 
yours. 

Graves. Praise be ! Look here. Miss Kathrine Coleman. 
You are just about as much of an actress as I am an ariist, but 
just the same, your one attempt at acting has made a bigger 



DOUBLE DUMMY 



13 



impression than any of Madame What's-her- name's hysterics 
ever did. 

Kath. (crossing to the canvas). Is this the impression ? 

Graves. You bet it is. And it's the most rttalistic picture 
ever painted in this studio by a long ways. But it will be the 
only extant masterpiece executed by Mr Graves, Esquire. See 
here. (He puts his hands on her shoulders.') You are fired 
— I'm fired. You are hungry — I'm sick of the whole business. 
You are pretending — I'm pretending. We're in the same boal, 
aren't we? Then let's stay in it ! 

(^His hands slip from her shoulders to her hands, and hold 
them. She looks at the tv riling in the cor tier of the can- 
vas, looks at him, looks at the rariting.) 

Kath. Merton Graves, does my nose turn up? 

( With a shout of laughter, he releases her hands, catches up 
her coat and throws it aroutid her, pulls his pad out of his 
pocket and flings it across the room, runs his fingers 
through his tumbled hair, savings his arms, puts on his 
cap, and catches up his ulster. Then seizing her little 
hands again, he begins dancifig her toivard the door, 
chafiting at the top of his lusty young lungs : " First the 
grub and then the lumber yard f Come on, Kathrine 
Coleman — come on, come on, come on ' ' They dis- 
appear as the curtain falls.) 



CURTAIN 



New Plays 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 

A Comedy in Five Acts 

By William Shakespeare 
Arranged for School Performance 

Thirteen male, three female characters. Costumes appropriate ; scenery 
of no importance. Plays two hours. An arrangement of this well-known 
play for schools, simplitied so far as possible in its division into scenes, 
and cut and rearranged for the use of male actors only, so far as this is 
possible. The rollicking fun of this play has been too long disregarded, 
and its great suitability for school performance by boys will be at once 
seen. Some care will be called for in the matter of costuming it, but this 
labor will be well repaid. 

Price, /J cents 

FARO NELL 

A Vaudeville Sketch in One Act 

By Willis Steell 

Six male, one female characters. Costumes, Mexican and frontier ; 
scenery, a picturesque interior. Plays twenty minutes. A very effective 
dramatic sketch with a star part for a woman. Has been used profession- 
ally in vaudeville. Good character and strong situations ; can be strongly 
recommended either for professional use in vaudeville or for private per- 
formance. Professional acting rights reserved. 
Price, /J cents 

MOR'D ALICE 

A Vaudeville Sketch in One Act 

By Marion Roger Fawcett 

One male, two fema^le charactei-s. Costumes modern ; scene, an easy 
'nterior. Plays fifteen minutes. A very slight but pretty and efiective 
.mingling of pathos and humor for an eccentric soubrette. Can be recom- 
mended. 

Price, 75 cents 

THE ALARM 

A Vaudeville Sketch in One Act 

By Marion Roger Fawcett 

Two male characters who double two other parts. Costumes modern ; 

scene, an easy interior. A very dramatic sketch for a man, with a situation 

of much power and pathos. Recommended. 

Price, 15 cents 



New Plays 



THE REBELLION OF MRS. BARCLAY 

A Comedy of Domestic Life 

In Two Acts 

By May E. Countryjtian 

Three male, six female characters. Costumes modern ; scenery, easy 
interiors. Plays one hour and three quarters. A clever and amusing 
comedy with a very popular cast; all the parts evenly good. There are 
many Mr. Barclays making their homes more or less uncomfortable all 
over this country, and Mrs. Barclay's method of curing her particular one 
will be sympathetically received. Good Irish comedy parts, male and fe- 
male. Strongly recommended. 

Price, 25 cents 

CHARACTERS 

Morton Barclay. Mrs. Brown, Morton s sister. 

Roger Stuart, a neighbor. Cora, her daughter. 

Dennis O'Hara. YA^sx^^TXiKKT, Roger s sister. 

Ethel Barclay, Morton s wife. Mary Ann O'Connor. 
Ruth Carter, Ethet s sister. 

PA'S NEW HOUSEKEEPER 

A Farce in One Act 
By Charles S. Bird 
Three male, two female characters. Modern costumes ; scenery, a 
simple interior or none at all. Plays forty minutes. A roaring farce of 
the "Charley's Aunt" order, admirably suited for high-school perform- 
ance. Jack Brown, visiting his chum, is tempted by his success in college 
theatricals to make up in the character of the new housekeeper, an at- 
tractive widow, who is expected but does not arrive. He takes in every- 
body and mixes things up generally. All the parts are first rate and the 
niece full of laughs and action. Strongly recommended. 
Price, /J cents 

A PRODIGAL SON 

A Comedy in One Act 

By Ray7nond M. Robinson 

Two male, three female characters. Costumes modern ; scenery, an 
easy interior. Plays half an hour. A very original and amusing bit of 
foohng, easy to do and sure to please. The leading character is a tramp 
and full of opportunity. Well recommended. 
Price, IS cents 



J1. U). Pinero's Plays 

Price, 50 Recite Cacb 



Min THANNFI Play in Four Acts. Six males, five females. 
"***-'''*'**"^"*""" Costumes, modern; scenery, three interiors. 
Plays two and a half hours. 

THE NOTORIOUS MRS. EBBSMITH S^'^i^^^"^ 

males, five females. Costumes, modern; scenery, all interiors. 
Plays a full evening. 

THF PRHFIIPATF Playin Four Acts. Seven males, five 
lllLi 1 IVV/I LilVJ/\ 1 El females. Scenery, three interiors, rather 
elaborate ; costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. 

THF QPHnni 1WIQTPFQ5 Farce in Three Acts. Ninemales, 
inUi 0«./nV/V/l.jlU101IVEiOi3 seven females. Costumes, mod- 
ern; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. 

THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY Igt^^LTel^^v^e 

females. Costumes, modern; scenery, three interiors. Plays a 
full evening. 

^WFFT I AVFlSinFR Comedyin Three Acts. Seven males, 
O TT LiCi I Lirt V Lil^ U£iIV four females. Scene, a single interior, 
costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. 

THF THITWnFRRniT Comedy in Four Acts. Ten males, 
inCi lllUllUlJlVDV^Lil nine females. ' Scenery, three interi- 
ors; costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. 

THF TIMFS Comedy in Four Acts. Six males, seven females. 
»***-« I*i'lI-<»J Scene. a single interior; costumes, modern. Plays 
a full evening. 

THF WFAITFR ^FY Comed^ in Three Acts. Eight males, 
inC VT£i/\I\.ILlV OSJA. eight females. Costumes, modern; 
scenery, two interiors. Plays a full evening. 

A WIFE WITHOUT A SMILE g°vT^7aiSf^u^Temi?^l: 

Costumes, modern; scene, a single interior. Plays a full evening. 



Sent prepaid on receipt of price by 

Walttx ?|. pafeer & Company 

No. 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




%\)t milmm Wax TsTST^^^^ 



^rice^ 15 €tnt^ €ac|j 



A^ YOIl I IKF IT Comedy in FIto Acts. Thirteen males, four 
AO IvU LilAu 11 females. Costumes, picturesque ; scenery, va- 
ried. Plays a full evening. 

CAMII I F Drama in Five Acts. Nine males, five females. Cos- 
vAiniLflvli tnmes, modern ; scenery, varied. Plays a full evening. 

INfiOMAI} P^y ^° Five Acts. Thirteen males, three females. 
inUUIuilA Scenery varied ; costumes, Greek. Plays a full evening. 

MARY STUART Tragedy in Five Acts. Thirteen males, four fe- 
ulAi\l OlUAHl males, and supernumeraries. Costumes, of the 
period ; scenery, varied and elaborate. Plays a full evening. 

TflE MERCHANT OF VENICE ^X?lhTel7e!nt?:i: S^^t 

picturesque ; scenery varied. Plays a full evening. 

DirHFI IFII Play in Five Acts. Fifteen males, two females. Scen- 
I\1vI1LjL<ILiU gi-y elaborate ; costumes of the period. Plays a full 
evening. 

THF RIVAI S Comedy in Five Acts. Nine males, five females. 
11U< RllALiD Scenery varied; costumes of the period. Plays a 
full evening. 

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ^^:&o^ ^^^'kJ^^^ 

rled; costumes of the period. Plays a full evening. 

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL iX^/e *^mIS 

three females. Costumes, picturesque ; scenery, varied. Plays a 
fall evening. 



Sent prepaid on receipt of price by 
No. 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts 

S. J. PARKHILL a CO.. PRINTERS. BOSTON, U.S.A. 



